


Hanging On The Telephone

by hgleiser



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Ending, Bets & Wagers, First Dates, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7935001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgleiser/pseuds/hgleiser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James loses a bet with the crew of his latest side project, The Reassembler, and gains something he never expected: a first date with Jeremy.  Rated mature because swearing and oh, cock(literally!).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hanging On The Telephone

**Author's Note:**

> This was a work in progress I finally got around to finishing, having started it when The Reassembler originally aired because my life was not yet consumed with writing F1 fics. The telephone episode ends with James testing the vintage phone simply by using his iPhone to call it and see if it rings, which I felt was a bit anticlimactic, so I decided to up the ante. Many thanks to L. for being my tireless beta who reads my ramblings in between plying me with pictures of Jorge Lorenzo.

Of the many shortcomings he's had exposed on twelve years of _Top Gear—_ the inability to talk to women or teenage girls, an appalling sense of direction, and a tendency to drink enough tea during studio days to need the loo an hour into the shoot—James knows the worst one is his lack of control when it comes to the placing and inevitable losing of bets. For the cost of a few pints of London Pride at the local pub one can, in his opinion, have more fun betting on darts while wearing a jumper that might have been in good condition circa 1982 than throwing dice while tarted up in the latest from Armani somewhere in Monaco.

Even if one loses and has to show up at Dunsfold the next day sporting a purple t-shirt with "I LOVE RICHARD HAMMOND" emblazoned across the chest in bright pink letters it's still enjoyable, mostly because he knows at some point Jeremy will look incredulous and ask "Are you wearing that for a bet?" to get a laugh out of the audience that makes for good telly both now and years later on an afternoon Dave rerun. Running for the train while on camera? No. Looking like a pillock for the afternoon in a bright blue jacket similar to the one Jeremy had picked up in Vietnam? No problem. _Nothing I've done can possibly be worse than drinking the V8 beef smoothie or being a runway model_ . _I've reached the pinnacle of embarrassing myself in front of the British public. It's all downhill from here._

With that in mind, when the latest bet comes up over a round of drinks at the Cross Keys the day before he's due to film the second episode of his latest solo project _James May: The Reassembler_ he's feeling perhaps a touch overconfident. It's a pretty straightforward shoot, he knows, doing pieces to camera while putting a 1957 Bakelite telephone back together in working order interspersed with archival clips of switchboard operators and people who had surely died by now marveling at the new technology then testing it during the last three to five minutes of the episode. Slow and relaxing just the way he likes it. He hates to use one of Jeremy's catchphrases almost as much as he hates admitting the outspoken orangutan is one of his best mates, but in this instance it's apt.

"How hard can it be?"

The three crew members sharing a table with him instantly avert their eyes after exchanging knowing smiles.

"Someone you're thinking about, James?" Rebecca, the assistant producer, teases. "It'd be a shame if you didn't continue the grand tradition of insulting each other on camera."

"There's no getting away from Pinky and Perky since we signed three-year deals so I might as well keep having a go at them. It keeps things interesting. Though now that you mention it, I need to work on new and exciting ways of doing so. Hard to beat making recycled paper from one of Hammond's books." He sighs and polishes off the last of his glass. "Is Jezza still name-dropping me in his car reviews? I'm still reading them but as a way to bore myself to sleep."

Mitchell, the camera assistant, chuckles. "Yeah, sure you are. Bet you read them with as much excitement as I did _Harry Potter_ when I was a kid. And for the record, yes." He pulls his phone from his pocket, brings up Jeremy's review of the 2016 Suzuki Vitara S from the _Sunday Times_ , and clears his throat. "Back in the 1950s, when James May was an old man and everyone on the radio sounded like the Queen..."

"Three years older than me and he makes me sound like I was old enough to have been around for the Queen's birth. Bastard."

"And here we are about to make a program in 2016 about you reassembling a telephone that was the top of the range when you were six years old." Dan, the sound recordist, muses. "Time travel, perhaps?"

James goes to the bar and orders a second pint of London Pride. He's thirsty anyway, but it's also necessary to hide the fond twinkle in his eyes whenever he thinks of how present he seems to be in Jeremy's thoughts. Which, of course, he hates. "I repeat, bastard. This calls for a spot of retaliation. Let not the 1957 GPO Bakelite phone go to waste, for it shall be employed as an untraceable weapon of prank calls to one Jeremy Clarkson tomorrow afternoon after we've finished."

"After?" Rebecca asks. "Why not during?"

"Be a nice surprise for the fans. I figure most people who will be watching will know you as 'the slow bloke from _Top Gear_ ' anyway." Dan takes a long sip of his drink. "You don't think Jeremy would mind, do you?"

"It's not that Jezza would mind, it's just that..." James trails off before the words forming in his mind have a chance to fall from his lips. _I'd rather keep our conversations private given the direction they've gone lately. Not everything would get me in trouble with Ofcom or the BBC, but they're still largely of a...sensitive nature._

"What is it?" Mitchell asks.

"It doesn't make for good television if I call him and he doesn't answer. I'd have to leave him a voicemail and it would all feel rather anticlimactic."

"Call him ahead of time and tell him to answer the phone when you call back," suggests Rebecca. "Problem solved?"

James groans. "I'm not going to get out of this as easily as I'd like, am I?"

Returning to the subject of Things I Hate About Jeremy Clarkson, which he reckons could fill a book by now, what James has come to positively _abhor_ about Jeremy of late is how much those private calls are getting to him. Especially the ones that take place at 2am when it seems the only way the empty space in his bed can be occupied by Jeremy's throaty whispers of "Fuck, May...so fucking close..." followed by the satisfying groan of his own name through the receiver. He swallows hard at the thought of the last call he got from Jeremy, which had begun innocently enough with him reading James his latest opinions on politics and pop culture for the _Sun_ but soon turned into heavy breathing and trembling fingers undoing the button on his jeans. He'd fallen into bed that night sated with a lingering, lazy smile but still unable to shake the thought of if Jeremy was just fooling around they'd eventually need to end it before someone got hurt. On the other hand, if Jeremy hated being attracted to him as much as he hated being attracted to Jeremy, then they were going to have to work out some sort of mutual arrangement of affectionate abhorrence as soon as possible before someone got hurt.

Or before the sexual tension while working on W Chump and Sons business with him got so thick one could cut it with a knife. Whichever came first.

"Oh, you could," Dan takes a drink of his lager. "I propose...a bet."

Mitchell and Rebecca grin while James covers his face with his hands. "Oh God, not another bloody bet. I can't say no."

"Three bullseyes in a row and you don't have to call Jeremy on camera. Sound fair?" Dan offers his hand across the table and James gives it a firm shake.

"You're on, sir."

Ten minutes later, James is dejectedly slumped over their table nursing the rest of his pint. "Oh, cock. Resistance was again futile but as a gentleman I am duty bound to hold up my end of the bet." He fishes his phone out of his pocket, scrolls to 'Clarkson' in his contacts list, and taps the screen while Rebecca, Dan, and Mitchell look annoyingly pleased with themselves. After several rings he's tempted to hang up and brush the three of them off for the night with "I'll try again later" but as his finger hovers over the red icon to end the call, the familiar greeting is crystal clear in his ear.

"May."

"Hello."

Jeremy chuckles, sending a surge of heat across James's face. "I'm not a giggly teenager, James, for God's sake. You know my name, you've yelled it enough on telly...and other places."

"Jezza, I'm in the pub with my production crew. Not now."

James can almost hear the pout in Jeremy's voice like a child whose parent has told them they can't eat dessert before dinner. "Later? Pleeeeeeeeease."

"Perhaps. I called because I've lost a bet."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Much more than I'd like. I'm filming the last episode of _The Reassembler_ tomorrow, putting back together a 1957 GPO Bakelite telephone, and the episode has to end with me trying it out..."

"And?"

"And I was planning to call the phone from my phone until my producer decided I should call you instead. I'd hoped scoring three bullseyes would grant me a pardon but I got two and now must call you while on camera."

"This will be brilliant!" Jeremy, he supposes based on the peals of laughter he's hearing, is rubbing his hands together and already contemplating the most effective way to insult him.

"Clarkson, for once in your life behave."

"Come now, James, what fun would that be?"

"Jeremy, please," he pleads. "This will likely be the last project I do for the BBC, certainly the last before I close Plum Pictures, and I don't want it to be a cock-up. Promise me if I call you early tomorrow evening you won't be an utter pillock for once in your life."

There's a pause that seems to go on forever before James realizes that Jeremy is having him on as usual. "Jezza?"

"I shall be on my best behavior but I'll tell you now, I won't enjoy it."

It's as good as he's going to get, he thinks, so he lets the latter part of Jeremy's words go and adopts a fake cheery tone. "Thanks for the favor, mate."

"Oh, anything for you, Slow. Call me back later if you fancy...well..."

"Yeah. We'll see."

"I'll be waiting," Jeremy's voice is husky then the line goes dead, leaving James with a familiar feeling both in the pit of his stomach and his trousers that he's not sure he can ignore for long. _Arsehole._ He returns the phone to his pocket and groans as he runs a hand through his silver hair in frustration. "This is the absolute last bet I'm accepting. Hold me to it."

"After we're done holding you to tomorrow's," Rebecca drains her glass and leans forward in her chair. "Did he say yes?"

"Unfortunately. I may get lost on purpose tomorrow to avoid the entire situation."

Mitchell shakes his head. "We're on a schedule."

"It can't be that bad, can it?" asks Dan.

"You lot don't know Jezza like _I_ know him. And on that note, I should probably resist the temptation to have a third drink and lessen the intensity of my inevitable hangover. G'night. See you lot tomorrow."

"So soon?" Rebecca pushes up the sleeve of her sweater and consults her watch. "It's only nine, we could have another round of darts. No bets this time."

 _I'll be waiting._ The thought sends shivers down James's spine and he knows better than to test Jeremy's patience and risk being embarrassed in an act of retaliation the next day. "I'm feeling particularly old tonight. Creaking bones and a craving for an early bedtime. Cheers." He stands and goes to the bar to pay his tab then calls a taxi, sliding into the seat with a sigh as he texts Jeremy.

 

_I'll call you once I'm home. Have you waited long enough?_

 

The reply comes through in a matter of seconds.

 

_Long enough to make me impatient for you._

 

_***_

 

James wakes the following morning with his thoughts still a mix of dread and desire, wishing to God he'd never told Jeremy at some point on one of his dissertations over drinks that poetry deserved to be read aloud more than analyzed to death. _If he reads any more Pablo Neruda to me I'm going to kill him. Well, fuck him senseless first. Then kill him._

"How did it go?" he murmurs to himself while watching sunlight gradually fill up the room. "Ah, now I remember. I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets."

His skin prickles at the memory of Jeremy's low voice on speakerphone next to his head, having put the phone on his pillow to keep both hands free for indulging himself. "Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps." The words form more easily on his lips than he's assumed they would, a testament to Jeremy's ability to draw an audience even with words not his own. “God, how did I let him get inside my head?”

There’s not much he can do about it now, however, because the words, full of the lust of the poet and himself, are spilling out of him in a breathless voice he wonders for a moment if Jeremy would be turned on by. “I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.”

_I need him. I want him._

With trembling fingers, he reaches for his phone and dials Jeremy’s number knowing he wouldn’t answer so early even if the Queen was calling, which is just as well because what he’s about to do needs to be a one-sided conversation—for now.

After several seconds he hears “This is the voicemail of Jeremy Clarkson. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you later.” and licks his lips just as the recording begins.

“I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.”

He ends the call and quickly shoves his hands under the covers, lifting his hips just enough to push his boxers down and free himself, and sighs with relief as he caresses his stiffening length.

“How,” he murmurs, “did I let myself want him inside me?”

 

***

That afternoon, after downing several strong cups of tea while wishing he could have wine instead to fuel his courage, James snaps the opposite end of the telephone cable into its outlet and stands up, turning to face the camera and waiting for his cue. “Why did I agree to this again?”

“Nervous?” asks Rebecca. “You told him to behave, the rest is up to him.”

James gives a derisive chuckle. “If there’s one thing I know about Jeremy Clarkson, it’s that he has no concept of good behavior. It’s as foreign to him as going to a football match and not getting off his arse drunk afterward. He’ll cock this up just to spite me.”

“We won’t have audio of him, of course, if it’s any consolation,” Dan adds. “But a bet’s a bet. It’ll be over soon.”

James sighs and pulls his phone from his pocket. _It’s a little too late to be afraid of his reaction, isn’t it? He goes that far for me but I’m not sure he expected me to go that far for him. Maybe he’ll write it off as I was drunk and took complete leave of my senses. Never mind that I was still half sober…_

“James? Are you ready?” Mitchell makes a last-minute adjustment to the camera. “We are.”

“Yeah.” James takes a deep breath and finds Jeremy’s number, his finger poised over the rotary dial. “If not now, when?”

Rebecca counts backward on her fingers behind the camera then points at him. _Three...two...one...go!_

“And now, the moment of truth. We have this 1957 GPO Bakelite telephone, reassembled from start to finish with only a little frustration, and all that remains is to make sure it works. Time to call a familiar old friend.” He picks up the receiver and flicks his eyes back and forth from the screen to the dial, entering each number slowly to buy himself a few more seconds. “For all our complaints about modern technology, tapping a single button is quite a bit faster for how long telephone numbers are here...”

The ringer buzzes in his ear, a comfortable reminder of the past while the present seems to be spinning before his eyes from nervousness. “It’s ringing. Come on, pick up...ah, there it is. Hello, Jezza. Can you hear me?”

There’s a pause on the other end before Jeremy’s voice crackles through the earpiece. “In case you’re curious, James, I haven’t deleted it.”

“Jeremy, I’m being filmed. This is the last conversation I want to have on camera.” James glances at Rebecca, who gives him a questioning look and makes a slashing motion across her neck.

“James? Are you there?”

He shakes his head. _It’d be a waste of their time to reshoot the last bit so it’s better if I waste my own time talking to him on camera. Downhill from here, indeed._ “Yes, because unlike your ridiculous iPhone, this device doesn’t suddenly stop working after six months. As I said, this is the last conversation I want to have...”

“We’re going to have it anyway. Are you afraid I didn’t enjoy your gift?”

James’s cheeks flush bright red. “Not at all. I had to get my revenge somehow...”

“You’re bluffing, May,” Jeremy gloats. “I know how nervous you get about showing your feelings.”

“Arse.”

“Am I right or am I right?”

“…yes.” James rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration. “As much as I’m loath to admit it, yes.”

“Whether you know it or not, James, you’re a sexy bastard when the mood strikes. I had a pleasant afternoon wank thanks to you.”

 _Leave it to Clarkson to talk about getting off as casually as he does gardening_ , he thinks, chewing on his lower lip and forcing the image of one of Jeremy’s appealingly large hands wrapped around what he imagines must be his also appealingly large cock out of his mind. “Too much information!”

“Or not enough?” Jeremy retorts.

“Save it for later, Jezza.”

“Mm, if I listen to it again I’m not sure I can...”

The hairs on the back of James’s neck suddenly stand at attention. “What are you on about?”

“Either you let me come pick you up for dinner and a shag or I’ll be forced to spend my evening alone under the sheets with only your dulcet tones for company. You’re enough of a tightarse that you wouldn’t say no to free food. The sex is complementary.”

“Is this your idea of a date?”

“Why else would I be offering both in the space of several hours, you idiot? Don’t start gushing like a schoolboy until I’ve hung up and don’t hang up until you’ve given me an answer.”

James leans against the wall of the workshop, feeling as if the breath has been knocked out of his lungs save enough for one word. “Yes.”

“I’ll see you at eight, then. Look decent. I’m not taking you to Little Chef since unlike Hammond you’ll eat real food.”

“Oh God, not one of those poncey places you like where everything is on a bed of or in a reduction of something. The last thing I want to watch you do is slurp raw snot from rocks.”

He swears he can hear Jeremy rolling his eyes. “Oysters are delicious, thank you. Besides...many people consider them an aphrodisiac. You’d benefit.”

“You’re disgusting and I’m hanging up now.”

“You know you love me.”

James drops the receiver into the cradle and adjusts his glasses, his mind reeling as he looks toward the camera to deliver his final thoughts. “As...as you can see, ladies and gentlemen, this 1957 GPO Bakelite telephone has been restored to its former glory. I’ve often wondered what sort of messages old telephones may have had whispered into their receivers by lovers of old and as I’ve just gotten a date, I can’t help feeling I’ve helped it fulfill its purpose once again. Goodbye.”

Rebecca nods in approval, Mitchell turns the camera off, and Dan places the boom mic on the work table before the three of them look at each other with varying degrees of amusement and Rebecca places two crumpled fifty-pound notes in her pocket.

“You lot had a bet about this, didn’t you? You profited from my loss.”

Dan shrugs. “You got a date out of it. You came out further ahead than Mitchell and I, that’s for sure.”

“You two agreed to it,” Rebecca grins. “Really, the three of you have got to learn to not bet when the odds are against you. James, next time we meet up at the pub the pints are on me. Congratulations.”

“A generous offer and one I’d take you up on tonight but...” James consults his watch, mentally calculating how much time he has to weave through traffic getting home on his motorcycle, change clothes, and shower before Jeremy arrives. “I’ve somehow made other plans.”

“Got the footage to prove it,” Mitchell chuckles. “Good luck.”

_Given the events of the past fifteen minutes, maybe I’m lucky enough already._


End file.
